


i love acting (i'm not acting)

by infricosator



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1940s, Background Reference to WW2, Comfort, Crowley is a lot less evil than he thinks he is, Crowley is starved for affection and you can't convince me otherwise, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Potentially disturbing descriptions of burns, Slight Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), these two goofs have RUINED MY LIFE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infricosator/pseuds/infricosator
Summary: 'Being inside a church, on consecrated land, did feel like being barefooted and walking on sand.On that point Crowley was not lying. What he didn’t mention to Aziraphale, however, was the fact that the sand in question happened to be very, very hot sand.'a continuation of the third episode’s church scene, set after Crowley returns Aziraphale’s books and remembers that, even after a century apart, he's still hopelessly in love with the angel.





	i love acting (i'm not acting)

**Author's Note:**

> i've watched the series and these two idiots have destroyed my life
> 
> good omens has made me sit down for the first time in 5 years to write something creative that is not related to my degree 
> 
> incidentally writing this fic is also helping me lift myself from a depression slump so maybe miracles do happen

Being inside a church, on consecrated land, did feel like being barefooted and walking on sand. On that point, Crowley was not lying.

What he didn’t mention to Aziraphale, however, was the fact that the sand in question happened to be very, _very_ hot sand. Not your everyday type of inoffensive sand which could be found on beaches. Rather, it was the sand found in Turkish coffee houses – placed on copper plates atop flames and heated until smoking – type of sand. And whereas his shoes did not burn, Crowley’s actual feet most certainly did. The soles of his feet felt raw and worryingly wet, turning ice cold when he stepped up and burning red-hot once again, when placing his foot back down.

But once Crowley handed the books to Aziraphale, seeing his fretful expression melt away into surprised silence, the pain was all worth it. His past annoyance at the angel, after the holy water business last century, was forgotten the moment he heard that a collector of rare books was to meet with some Nazi spies. After some suitably evil snooping around the spy circles, pretending to be an English gentleman interested in keeping England full of the right people (Crowley knew there was a special place in hell for this kind of people), he had heard that a Mr A. Z. Fell was to deliver some rare manuscripts to a nondescript church in the dead of the night. He also heard that this Mr Fell was contacted by what he thought was the British secret police, which had been surprisingly easy to find.

Stupid naïve and gullible angel, Crowley had thought, did he really think that the English intelligence service conveniently hung around outside his shop, for the express purpose to thwart any foreign spies that were looking for prophecy books for their Führer? Apparently so.

Although rightfully he should have let Aziraphale get discorporated to tilt the scales towards evil, Crowley could not stand by and let it happen. He has found Aziraphale after damn near a century and he was going to make sure the gullible angel was safe from those who wanted to take advantage of him. Crowley’s feet, while in agony, were a small price to pay to redeem himself in Aziraphale’s eyes, after that stupid holy water argument that had lasted near a century.

 ***

When Aziraphale smiles shyly at Crowley, thanking him, the ever-present awareness and nervousness of being an angel in human guise coming through his mannerisms - hands fluttering to clutch at his hat - the demon’s heart had nearly burst. So Crowley does what he has always done and deflects his thanks with a scoff and an eye roll.

With a pang, Crowley realises that Aziraphale has probably misunderstood his intentions again. Aziraphale called his timely intervention a kindness, thanking him for preventing his discorporation. Crowley calls it selfishness because he could not imagine being without Aziraphale, not after he’s just found him again. The angel insists on reading his actions as a manifestation of the presumed goodness hidden somewhere deep, deep, inside his demonic soul. And he was wrong. Crowley’s acts were for Aziraphale alone, to make him look at the demon with that fond expression that made him feel like he was worth something; more than a pawn in a great game of cat and mouse.

Crowley didn’t want to admit it, but he craved Aziraphale’s attention. His apparent indignation at the Agreement, his fastidious appearance always fifty years behind the current fashion trends, his random acts of kindness for the human race and seemingly infinite fascination for their stupidity, he wanted to see all of it. He wanted to be there and selfishly experience it all for himself. The surprised expression Aziraphale’s face as he handed him the books made his heart give a longing pang. Selfishly, Crowley wants the angel to look like that at him, not at a bunch of books.

Teetering, Crowley starts towards his car intent on pretending that everything is fine, especially his heart and feet, thank you very much. ‘Lift home?’ he asks Aziraphale in what he hopes is a suitably jauntily tone.

From behind, he hears Aziraphale follow. They get in the car in silence, Aziraphale consumed by his thoughts, seemingly fascinated by the book bag, and Crowley trying to drive without using his feet. Starting the car proves to be more challenging than anticipated. The Bentley hadn’t yet realised that it was meant to always obey him and despite Crowley’s best attempts, he has to start it humanely. And painfully. With a horrible mechanical groan and rattling, the Bentley shudders and refuses to budge.

Muttering under his breath and avoiding Aziraphale’s curious gaze, Crowley swears that if the Bentley does not move within the next five seconds he will replace it with a Chenard-Walcker purchased immediately from across the pond. Obediently and rattling in fear of being replaced with its French rival, the Bentley starts driving towards Aziraphale’s book shop.

‘That’s a good car’ praises Crowley, trying to ignore the way his burned nerves were screaming at him to stop moving.

Thanks to that, Crowley’s pain which had faded to a dull throb, starts up again. Even resting his feet lightly on the floor makes little pinpricks of pain travel up his calves, the tender flesh on his soles raw and sensitive to any movement. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop from letting out a whimper of pain.

In the passenger’s seat, Aziraphale holds the bag to his chest, periodically clutching it tighter as if to reassure himself that it’s still there. His face has not yet lost the slightly dazed expression from the church. Crowley misses the way in which Aziraphale’s soft gaze carefully runs over him. His eyes roam from Crowley’s smoked glasses to his Adam’s apple, clenched hands and tense legs.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees the angel open his mouth. ‘Crowley, you…’ starts Aziraphale then stops, seemingly changes his mind, and starts again. ‘You walked on consecrated ground, are you sure you’re all right?’ The question was whispered softly, blending in with the background noise from the car.

Aziraphale was not stupid. He knows demons are not meant to enter churches. And while Crowley did say it felt like walking on hot sand, a part of Aziraphale knew better. Churches were made to keep those of demonic power out. And Crowley could not miracle away the pain, anymore than Aziraphale could heal infernal fire burns. It was not unlike the demon to deflect any concerns about his safety with a smart comment.

Crowley freezes for a second and then scoffs, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. ‘Who? Me? Don’t worry angel, it was nothing, a walk to the beach.’ Looking at Aziraphale, Crowley’s hand reaches down automatically to change gears, his foot seeking the clutch.

A high-pitched sound escapes him the moment his left leg presses the pedal. ‘Crowley?’ asks Aziraphale alarmed. ‘You’re in pain!’ he accuses.

‘Nghh, itsss fine’ hisses Crowley. ‘Itsss all fine.’ The car almost swerves into a pile of rubble, before quickly righting itself.

‘You said it was like walking on hot sand,’ says Aziraphale disapprovingly, righting himself. ‘And you can’t very well heal yourself.’

Crowley stammers. ‘Yes, hot sand. Very hot sand. And of course I can heal myself.’ The last bit was spoken through clenched teeth.

The pained had morphed, now becoming a steady stream of red-hot agony. Probably the nerves getting used to the pain or his toes falling off.

Aziraphale still has that soft look on his face, the one that makes Crowley feel like he is about to burst out of his damn skin. The angel’s compassion was a wonderful thing to behold. The serpentine part of him wanted to bask in its warmth, whereas Crowley the demon wanted to both embrace and turn away from it. Aziraphale had no business looking at him like that. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that.

‘Listen angel, we’ve both had a rough day. How about you go home, and I go home, and we meet back up here tomorrow, hmm? You can’t miracle away my pain.’ Crowley just wanted to go to his apartment, possibly crawl up the stairs, and dunk himself in cold water, then sleep for at least two days.

Aziraphale turns fully towards him, the bag precariously resting on his thighs, and sighs. ‘Crowley, what you did was truly admirable. I don’t want you to suffer because of me.’

In slow motion, Crowley watches Aziraphale move his hand and place it on his wrist. Not putting any pressure, just resting his hand on Crowley’s bare skin. Impossibly soft fingers are touching the delicate skin stretched taut around his bony wrist. Aziraphale had never touched him like this, on purpose. He was always careful to maintain a plausible deniability, that they were operating separately. Their only touches were when the social situation required it, friendly bump of shoulders when sitting next to each other or due to close proximity. Aziraphale’s fingers tighten loosely around his bare wrist, blue eyes staring straight into his soul despite the tinted glass. Crowley felt exposed.

The impossible tenderness of Aziraphale’s hold ignites something hot in Crowley’s stomach. It starts spreading towards his chest, dulling the pain in his legs and igniting a yearning for tenderness in his heart. How long has it been since he was touched like this?

The car slowly lurches to a stop in front of the book shop. Absent of the rattling of the Bentley, their ears ring in the sudden silence. Nothing else is audible other than Crowley’s laboured exhales and Aziraphale’s soft breathing.

For a long minute they stare at each other. Crowley with his hand enclosed by the angel’s warm grip, and Aziraphale continuing to softly stare at his friend of 6000 years.

‘Please?’ Aziraphale whispers and just like that the tension breaks.

Aziraphale will not beg, but nor will he force his friend to do something that might make him feel uncomfortable.

Crowley sighs and meets Aziraphale’s eyes. ‘Fine,’ he says begrudgingly. ‘But you are opening a bottle of that 1921 Pinot Noir vintage I know you have squirreled away in the back.’ _Nice one_ , thinks Crowley congratulating himself, as he attempts to move the conversation into a safer topic of drinks. Thankfully, Aziraphale accepts his diversion.

Aziraphale smiles and although his face is hidden by the shadow that his hat casts, his face lights up. Crowley can’t help but return his smile. Damn Aziraphale’s beautiful smile, that makes his cheeks dimple and his eyes gleam. Crowley is pretty sure it’s a remnant of the angelic divinity that mortal bodies cannot deal with, and not his feelings for a certain angel, that makes his insides flutter at such a perfect smile.

‘Of course dear boy, you have most certainly earned it,’ says Aziraphale, continuing to look at the demon.

Mouth suddenly dry, Crowley adds, ‘And you’re going to have to hold the doors open for me angel, I can’t put too much pressure on my feet.’

Aziraphale nods, releasing his hand. For a moment, Crowley absurdly misses the warmth, wishing the angel would just hold him for a little bit longer. The pain didn’t seem so bad when Aziraphale touched him.

Aziraphale gets out first and goes around the car to help Crowley stand up. Staggering, the demon hefts himself out of his car by holding onto the door and steering wheel, and then using them to propel his body forwards. Aziraphale wordlessly slides his arm around Crowley’s waist, taking most of the demon’s weight off his legs.

Crowley’s stomach suddenly decides to participate in the Olympics. It swoops down as Aziraphale drags him close, their sides touching fully, as his arm tightening to better support Crowley. Even separated by multiple layers of heavy clothing, to Crowley this feels downright decadent. Surely they didn’t need to touch from shoulders to knees, he could attempt to twist away from the heat of the angel’s body and to stop himself from reacting so strongly to a simple touch. And yet…

Crowley snakes his arm around Aziraphale and squeezes the soft flesh hidden underneath. He feels, rather than see, Aziraphale smile - and - squeeze him softly in return. Together they hobble up the stairs, miracling the door to open and shut behind them, the doorbell tinkling behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading guys!!
> 
> a couple of notes:  
> the Chenard-Walcker was one of the first car brands (as we know them) to produce cars not only for leisure but also for racing. Until the Bentley started to be manufactured later on in the twentieth century the racing scene was pretty much dominated by Chenards. When the Bentley was introduced as a direct rival, the french car industry took a massive hit to their pride as the Bentley was better at winning races. (any vintage car enthusiasts let me know if im wrong abt this)
> 
> please let me know what you thought and if you like it there could be a second chapter where Aziraphale actually takes care of Crowley's burned feet (and incidentally almost kills the poor demon by simply touching him ;;) ) 
> 
> leave a comment or come and scream at me abt good omens at my tumblr: perpetuallyangryromanian
> 
> oh btw title was taken from Metronomy's old skool if u want to check that out!


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